Remembering
by Onetimerrequester
Summary: An AU where Stan took a different path than previously intended to where he is today. A wild life in a different suit. No triggers or anything so enjoy peeps! Feel free to review! A fic inspired by Notllorstel (tumblr) artwork and a love for Batman. I own nothing but the story.


He had been out on his own for three years when his life changed (a future redirecting from fleeing- well _most_ state fleeing, at least the trauma of car boots was dulled from his mind slightly after the alteration).

He didn't expect to meet him. He was merely ambling back to his car after a relatively unsuccessful gamble when he heard it, hushed threats and a pained grunt. Normally he would have just walked past the alley, head down and hands in pocket; but for once he just _couldn't_.

He charged in fists flying and rage up, mugger down in under a minute as he breathed heavily in his stance. He only realised who he'd defended afterwards.

He didn't realise just how much that fight would mean to him later.

Soon he was fighting in the ring and teaching people instead of just late night scraps for cash.

He was helping people, really doing something, not just bottom feeding. Late night spars and someone to talk to who listened didn't hurt either. Lessons and words never judging but nurturing, something his own father hadn't been good at imparting.

He was something. He had approval from a warm face and guiding hand. He was important.

He _mattered_.

He was given the ring to himself! He had a place of his own! His pride and joy of boxing being rewarded, he felt alive and the faces of people looking up to him was _fantastic._

The euphoria was slightly sullied by the bruises people sustained out of the ring, in the streets shadows. The motto of 'head down and shoulders square' ringing at the back of every mind.

Sometimes someone didn't make it to a session.

The old man had tried to keep him out of it, showed him how to defend others through teaching over confrontation, but he saw it all, he wanted to do _more_.

Then the gangs started coming for his home; "safety fees" they'd call it.

They threatened his friends, his people, _innocence,_ then to top it all off came for their beacon of _hope_.

That was the last straw.

He knew how to make convincing scars, time in gambling rings made sure he knew how to change his appearance at the drop of a hat (or a loading of a gun). He cornered the gang after a few stake outs at a seedy little pub in the underbelly, told them gruffly to clear out of his town, only warning. They laughed at him, alcohol fumes in the air and mockery in their eyes. He just smiled, bringing knuckle buster clad fists out of his jacket pockets and unleashed hell.

Wildcat was born.

He remembered cold nights on patrol, warm blood from nicks and the feel of his handmade costume. It took months but he did it. He was clearing his streets. Saving his people.

He made his mark in a corrupt society, paving a way to a brighter future in a way never before imagined by a young boy on a beach.

The Stan-mobile parked round back by day and at night he rode a glistening motorbike, suit on and helmet snug as he revved engines with bronze knuckles shining in lamp-light.

His heart may still ache from his past but it burned anew here.

He was home.

A few years in (perhaps two?) he learnt of others out there with his views. First time he actually met another hero he almost caved in his skull. He was fortunate the scarlet speedster was up to the rumours. A red blur with a silver hat, bright and laughing. He helped him take down a small time gang that had terrorised the docks for years; the speedster promised to keep in touch. It wasn't the last run in.

He made a team.

The Flash (jovial spirit always talking and never not moving); Black Canary (the first; a shining smile and a piercing scream). Golden hoods in the form of Hourman accompanied by Doctor Mid-nite and his array of trinkets followed a year in, bringing a much needed healer. The magical helmet of Nabuu and his host going by the name of Doctor Fate and (of course) the warrior Hawkman with his tawny wings and his mace crackling with energy as he swooped in screeching. Others came and went, some with powers such as green rings and some without, some merely coming for training which they were swiftly encompassed in.

They were odd, but once they started, it was as if they had always been a team. His ring became a base after hours; his fists a force for good; his back always watched and his worth never doudted. He had a family.

It grew and changed with time, shifted in odd ways, and while some day there would be pain (he still winced at fire with the surge of memories clutching a weakening friend in his arms; promises heavy in his mind every time he gazed at her spitting image daughter) there were also days of triumph he would clutch until the end of time.

He raised a spitfire from the gutters, eased bruises and taught her how to make men fear her rather than vice versa. He was so proud of the standoffish youth when he caught her dancing over rooftops. It was only after his third patrol around where he new certain proteges were starting out that he realised how close he was to the new generation.

It became his thing; taking in the lost, as he had once been, and helping them shine. Coached them into defending against life's punches and rise when beaten down. Taught them how to duck the odds and weave to victory.

Nights were filled with laughter and a bloom in his chest around these people. He felt alive.

But then it all went to hell.

Then he got a postcard, scrawled in pleas for help, a familiar name embossed at the bottom. His heart twisted and he let it lead him to freezing scape.

He'd been a sucker for helping people, his brother was no exception.

It all down spiralled when he got to the snowy nobody village and saw his brother. He looked a wreck, eyes haggard and crossbow raised rambling about eye stealing. Then he showed him downstairs; spiel of portals and a metal construct he knew from fights with Per Degaton and other villains reeked _wrong_. He was ready to embrace his brother, get him out of the pit he had dug when he thrust a worn journal into his hands and told him to get as far away as possible.

He refused. Adamantly. Tried to reason with his brother, then Ford snapped, words burst forth that sent him internally reeling, his temper flared as it hadn't in years. This journal was of more worth than him to his brother. They tussled, the reek of burning fabric and flesh and _searing_ pain. The portal crackling to life and Sixer pleading. Then all he was left with was pain, phantom cries deafening in silence, and a worn journal.

Sixer was important.

Sixer mattered _more_.

He felt the smooth yet rugged cloth in his had before folding his gear over his photograph, group memorabilia, and storing it in an unmarked box to be hidden at the back of his wardrobe.

Took on a guise and burned bridges just to get his brother back. Sacrificed everything to be a shroud: Mr Mystery.

It burned almost as fierce as the car fire when he found that news had got back to the others of his passing (his car he had driven out in favour of his beloved motorbike burned to a scrapheap; a burned husk- the con-mans greatest getaway identified by him later as himself). He beheld the caption of his old newspaper as his death away from his ring, his home, came to light. The mourning faces out of mask and and bereft looking pupils stung.

He swallowed it though, better to keep them out of this, believing he died a hero than the monster who through away his brother's life.

He soldiered on pushing it all into the past.

But old habits died hard, it was all to familiar a feeling when he took a young boy under his wing, gave him a job and a place to come to be safe. Raised him as he had so may others, later followed by a lumberjack's ax-wielding daughter. The look in the boys eyes reminded him painfully of golden curled screeches gratitude and the flannel wearing girl of black haired spunk.

Other habits died hard to.

Somedays his hand would itch, form into a fist reflexively when he read something or caught a glimpse of harsh terrors in the news. His powerlessness clung to him, suffocating him as he grew older, the portal still so far out of reach and his heart yearning to reconnect as he saw teammates fall states away (he had to close the shack the day flash disappeared, unable to drown old chatter filled memories from his mind).

He learnt to tune out, relearned to look the other way.

Except when he didn't; when he just couldn't.

Then the well oiled machine flew back into gear and he would take the step, sail the punch, duck and weave and kick. He did it when raiders came after the shack, when peoples lives were on the line. Also when a certain pig may have been abducted on his watch by a pterodactyl to nostalgic of a long ago fight with Grodd to really count.

He did it when the zombies were in his shack. Skulls caving under feet and jawbreaking smack-downs rang clear and true through the air.

He did it for his kids, innocent children. Too pure for reality, still swept up in bright futures and twin bonds and lighthearted joy.

They were important. They mattered above all else.

He may not have put on the costume but for that moment, he was Wildcat again.

Then Sixer was back. After (shady) government dealing and breakouts; sparking portals and tearful begs with a scared little girl trusting him as the world glowed. His brother was home. He let the punch hit, he saw it coming but his mind just refused to believe his brother would do it. He let himself lose because he just wouldn't raise a hand. Not to him.

Then his brother told the story of their past his way and he was left in the dust.

His kids hated him, they saw him as a fraud, the looks at Ford were more than he could ever hope for now. But he took solace in what he had done, what he would continue to do. Protect his kids.

Even if it meant leaving them and all that he had worked for in the past 30 years behind him.

After that stuff blurred together, white and fire and triangles were all he could really remember of the time after the portal and before the kids birthday. He forgot who he was. Then when he remembered he was just Stanley Pines.

But his fists itched in unknown memories and at night he was sailing over rooftops (not seas), legs pumping and black clad fists with gleaming brass shining in the moonlight, gold hoods and red shirts flashing by him or shadows laughing as he spun down highways on a purring motorbike, acrid smoke filling his lungs as adrenaline thrummed in his veins. He liked these dreams even if he didn't understand the curl of nostalgia at the edge of his grasp upon reflection when on his rocking bed in the Stan'o'war.

He had his brother, two brilliant niblings and a shack he could go back to, so why did his heart still ache?

Then Soos pulled a dusty box from the back of the closet and it all made sense. The new Mr Mystery presented it to him and Ford, sea-spray stained fingers shook as they reverently opened the old box and greeted an old friend shielding a tattered picture emblazoned with signatures. Smiling masked faces gazed up at him, the same ones that slotted into his dreams; and he remembered.

He remembered himself.


End file.
